Tired eyes,
Behind them nothing disguised.
Bags they carry reveal a traveler, weary.
Birth began his journey,
Where he ventures there is no hurry.
He longs for connection,
Something more than his own reflection.
The traveler rests,
Unexpecting of what was to happen next.
Peering through windows fogged,
He finds himself a loss,
The glass wiped clean reveals the unseen.
There she waits in the distance,
And tired eyes are brought to life.
The sun peeks above the trees
And he runs.
He runs,
And he runs.

Jordan McFarlen


The Collector

The collector did as any he does;
Displayed his collection proudly,
Though no eyes but his ever would see,
This fascination which came to be.
His collection defined him,
He was what it was.
He stored up his treasures,
And kept them free of dust.
But what once brought him joy,
Now brought affliction,
His hobby now an addiction.
Once so proudly displayed,
His collection now left in disarray.
Life consumed began to fade,
Until one morning he did not wake,
Surrounded by his own mistake.

Jordan McFarlen